A Light Through the Dark
by TheCuriousConscience
Summary: An internal monologue from Dean's POV throughout episode 3 of season 10, "Soul Survivor". Brief splash of Destiel towards the end.
**Title:** A Light Through the Dark

 **Word Count:** 2,061 words

 **Rating:** T, there's sporadic use of swear words

 **Pairings/Characters:** Dean/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Crowley- though only in passing

 **Warnings:** Again, there's some swearing scattered through there...Light angsty self pity kind of focus, poor descriptions of pain.

 **Spoilers:** Only takes place of the course of 10.3, _"Soul Survivor"._

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this, characters aren't mine...plot isn't mine...nothing's mine.

 **A/N:** Let me know how this goes will you?

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He didn't know what he was doing anymore. His old life of killing monsters, killing demons, killing things like him were all but foggy memories like someone else might have of themselves waiting at a bus stop. He just didn't care, not anymore. Barhopping, shouldn't that be a man's paradise? Alcohol that's been paid for already and women who flock towards him with only a smirk and a wink? But he's tired, so very _tired_. He can feel the Hell fire searing through his veins, it's the only thing keeping him warm when he's topside. He can feel the dark intentions that practically _ooze_ from the woman talking to the bartender and the lust radiating from the man at the far table. The stench of desperation, of grief, and the ever addicting scent of internal suffering is practically choking him it's so strong. Yet he keeps going. He drags Crowley along like a child might a teddy bear if only because of the familiarity that he feels near him while he valiantly tries to live in a drunk stupor and proceeds to fail spectacularly. It took a lot of alcohol to affect him to begin with, now? At this point he might as well be drinking water, hell knows that it would definitely help his near constant headache.

So with all of that he has to admit that once _darling_ Sammy tracks him down and drags him back to the bunker with some handy dandy demon-proof cuffs he's almost happy, mainly because it shook up the routine. He's also as pissed as a hell-hound at the door of a sinner and as indignant as a self righteous sinner at that. What gave his brother the _right_ to push him off the road of self destruction and utter loathing? For all _he_ knew he was reveling in the agony that he was causing to others...but no. He raised Sammy to be the sympathetic and upstanding hero and everyone knows that heroes need their villains to be able to live their life. But for _fuck's sake_ he's a _Knight of Hell_! He could slaughter _legions_ of whimpering demon underlings without a sweat, an army of humans as well for what it's worth, he _deserves_ some _respect_!

He can't help but give a bitter and breathy laugh at that familiar phrase. Just thinking about celestial beings in general made him itch like he had fleas, but thinking about a specific one with such clarity that they were practically standing in front of him? Well, those fleas had teeth and boy could those fuckers _bite_. Yet sitting here, in the the bunker's shitty yet effective excuse of a dungeon he felt the longing filter back into his vessel. That's all it was now after all. Granted he couldn't exactly _leave_ it like the minions could, then again he didn't want to. This meat suit was _his_ dammit and it'd be a cold day in hell before he willing gave it up.

Then it occurred to him as he was leisurely chasing his giant of a brother through their underground fortress that maybe, if he could actually accept the fact that he had become a Knight or even a demon, that he might have more control over himself. He wasn't a puppet by any means, but trying to get himself to, for instance, slow a car for a crossing dog as opposed to making the vehicle speed up made him woozy. It burned and tore at him like he was back on the rack and afterwards...he wouldn't even be able to remember if the dog had made it across the street. The whisper of who he used to be was both horrified at what he was currently doing and cheering Sam on for being able to evade him for as long as he had. That changed however when he saw his brother waiting for him at the end of the hall, then it was nothing but weak and pathetic attempts a telling Sam to run, calling for the angel, it _sickened_ him. What choice did he have when his very essence didn't want to be saved? His mind might want the gift of free will again, but what gave him life or a free pass to sinning certainly did not.

The knife at his throat made him want to laugh. The runes etched into it made his throat burn faintly and the danger of it all sent a dizzying wave of _thrill_ through him. He almost wanted Sam to yank it across his throat, to see that steel resolve actually appear in this human's eyes. To be able to finally get that drunken stupor from the overwhelming grief and self hate that would flood from this sympathetic creature right before he flickered out. But that would have _good_ results, it would _please_ the sparks left over from his human days and that meant that it certainly _couldn't_ happen. Of course, he was still disappointed when Sam lowered the knife, it made it far to easy to lunge at him. But that was the surprise, wasn't it?

The blessed sound of wings and a vice of a grip locking him in place. His world exploded into one of pain, Hell's creatures were never meant to be around something so pure as an angel. He felt nothing but cleansing agony and could see nothing but the light shining from behind him, searing through the corner's of his eyes and cutting into the essence of his vessel. It was that moment that he wished he was human again or even weaker then he was so that unconsciousness would great him like friend rather than a rabid stray. It was several minutes of struggling to get away and forceful words from Castiel, the angel's voice overlaid with the mournful sounds of its true voice were daggers in his ears, and then a brief moment of a hand on his wrist and he collapsed, his world shrouded by cooling darkness.

The land of the living was _all too eager_ to yank him back into consciousness and the burning of the cuffs strapping him to the chair provided him with a welcome focus. It was all the reminder he needed to let the insults and manipulation go flowing from his mouth and oh how he _reveled_ in the emotions pouring off of Sam. A final attempt certainly had to be made before this vile, _ant_ of a creature, forced his miraculous _cure_ into his arm and he too welcomed the flash of agony from the holy water splashed over him in response. Something he _wasn't_ ready for was the feverish anguish that followed the injection. He could feel the warming Hell-fire retreat and then flare in a sort of indignation and feral rage at trying to be subdued. He could feel those barely there sparks within his core flicker brighter before being doused with the tar that now occupied the space. It was similar to when he had been gripped by the angel but it was also different. This pain was within this time, it was _deeper_ , _lower_ , harder to _ignore_. His awareness dimmed and his vision was hazed, to say he was glad for the black depths of unconsciousness was a rather mild way of putting it.

He was not pleased about being slapped awake though. A Knight of Hell should surely deserve a far more pleasant awakening, then again, demons had no need of sleep and he could _feel_ the humanizing affects of the injections. The relief that was at the edges of his mind unnerved him. Though he bantered and spoke with his brother he had no idea what was actually being said. The longer he spent awake the more he could comprehend the fierce determination weaved within Sam's words before he slammed the needle back into his forearm. The cuffs may have hidden his small tug to get away from it but he was _definitely_ aware of the fact that he had _tried_ and when the searing nature of the cure once again started to tear him apart he could only watch Sam stalk away from him. The words were there to call him back, to _beg_ him back, to not leave him alone, to _help_ him, but he couldn't, not when the grime still masked the soul that was reforming and was holding firm.

As the sensation of the needle filtered its way through his brain his fight to an awakened state began. At this point he was numb, the light shining through his eyelids and making the filth of his being buzz with agitation combined with the sounds of conversation almost lulled him back to sleep. Yet there he was, raising his head while his demon remains clawed at a final patch of ground within him and showed their rage through his eyes. It was so faint, but the _pain_ he felt when he looked up at the two before him was vastly uncomfortable, if pain is what it could truly be called. The _magnificence_ that was shining before him stole his breath away. The moments he had to study the angelic figure before him before his remade soul shoved off the grime of Hell was simply too short a time to take in this celestial _glory_.

It was bright, oh so _bright_ , to the point where he could hardly see the vessel that desperately tried to contain it. To be honest it looked cramped. What he figured were limbs were pressed so tightly to itself that it couldn't be comfortable for any creature, Heavenly or Hellish. Then it was the wings, oh those _wings_. The cleansing feeling that dripped from them and the celestial intent was _indescribable_. He could only barely make out outlines of feather-like features that seemed to glow with the colors from the darker ends of the spectrum. Before his attention was diverted, he caught a glimpse of Hell's embers embedded within the light, gleaming with corruption and smudging the purity of the wings with sinful ash each time they moved. But the blue is what truly caught his attention. The face of the creature defensively facing him shone with the bluest of lights, as if the sky had been washed of its color and the Caribbean had relinquished its famous waters. The _emotion_ that could be seen within the light, that seemed so out of place and yet natural, shook his very being. Though the vessel had been watching him, the creature before him only made eye contact for a brief instant before it flickered away, the fading images of it _recoiling_ in a resemblance of surprise danced across his memory as pain surged through him while he groaned, before it too began to recede.

Confusion is the first thing he saw on his angel's face, worry was another, though that was present on both Sammy and Cas's face. Yet he was drawn into eye contact with the angel, watching as a bewildered, doubtful, suppressed _gleeful_ excitement, and relief whirled across his face. The exhaustion was plain on his voice even to him as he spoke to his brother and Cas, eyes flicking between them. For he was far too tired to watch one thing without falling asleep. But as he looked over at Cas one last time he would swear he saw a glimpse of the creature again, an enormous arm stretched out towards him and a finger only _inches_ from his cheek. The eye contact this time with the celestial form was far shorter and foggier than previously and it flickered out before he could determine whether or not it was a hallucination, but compassion and reverence were quite vivid in its cerulean gaze. He felt it though, the moment it must have touched. He was warm, so comfortingly _warm._ Exhaustion was creeping into his bones, and he felt some force soothe the ache within his soul for at that moment, he felt so utterly protected and cared for that he could only lower his eyes in baffled shock as his brother's welcoming washed over him.


End file.
